


The More Things Change

by mnemosyne23



Series: Dombilie - Secrets and Spies 'Verse [3]
Category: Lost RPF
Genre: Airplane Sex, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, Backstory, Dark, F/M, Mile High Club
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-03-25
Updated: 2005-03-25
Packaged: 2018-01-12 20:55:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1199955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mnemosyne23/pseuds/mnemosyne23
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Missing scene from Teffy's <a href="http://teffy.livejournal.com/253988.html"><i>Secrets and Spies</i>.</a>  On the flight to London, Emilie has doubts about Billy while Dom muses on what it was like when he had no one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The More Things Change

**Author's Note:**

> This story takes place after [chapter 9](http://www.livejournal.com/users/teffy/212090.html) of Teffy's _Secrets and Spies_ , while Dom and Emilie are winging their way to London, where they intend to meet up with Billy.

 

_"Are there no shadows where you are?_  
 _I can see everything as day._  
 _Problems that you try to hide away;_  
 _Pushing me aside… You're pushing me aside…"_

_-"(The Symphony of) Blasé" by Anberlin-_

 

The first class cabin is quiet save for the roar of air around the skin of the plane. They've been flying for two hours, and Emilie feels the eyes in the back of her head turning bloodshot from tension. Every inch of her skin is prickling with anxiety, though she hides it well under the vapid exterior of a college co-ed. Her head is aching, and in an attempt to soothe the pressure on her temples she reaches back and pulls the elastic out of her hair, releasing her ponytail and sending her fair hair tumbling in loose waves over her shoulders.

Even good girls like sexy hair. Especially when they've got cute boyfriends.

Looking to the side, Emilie can't help but smile. Dom's curled over the arm rest, his cheek on her shoulder, sleeping. He can sleep just about anywhere; it's a knack he perfected years before he met her. Affectionately she reaches up to brush some of her loose locks out of his face, and he cuddles closer, his lips unconsciously kissing the side of her hand. "Shhh, Dom," she murmurs, indulging and using her natural accent, knowing it will soothe him more than her fake American dialect. "Not time yet."

He mumbles something incoherent and goes back to sleep, deep breaths fluttering against her collarbone. Emilie sighs and rests her cheek against the top of his head, rubbing his arm gently, as much to assure herself of his presence as to remind him of her own.

This whole business with Billy coming back from the grave has left her feeling uneasy, and not just because their home's been shot to pieces and they've put their lives in the hands of a walking zombie. She could almost take all that, because things get shot up when you're in the crime business, and because she trusts Dom implicitly. If he trusts Billy, she'll MAKE herself trust Billy.

Except that she doesn't. Not really. Not much at all.

It's too fishy, him suddenly reappearing and mere minutes later their compound is under attack. So blatantly obvious, in fact, that it's the only thing _letting_ her trust him. Billy was never stupid -- what she hasn't heard from Dom she's learned via her own means over the years -- and it would be stupid to connect yourself so openly to an attack. But maybe, just maybe, this is some kind of double bluff, and he inserted himself into their lives just before the attack precisely BECAUSE it would seem too obvious. Perhaps he's trusting on their knowledge of his intelligence to keep him clear in their eyes.

Her head is pounding harder now and she closes her eyes. Trust has never been something she gives easily. It must be earned, and earning her trust isn't as simple as meeting her for dinner or feeding her fish while she's on vacation. Emilie demands a kind of loyalty that few people have ever been able to achieve. Only one, in fact, and he's sleeping on her shoulder right now.

But now she feels doubt, and it's killing her. Dom, she thinks, trusts too easily. Not foolishly, and never openly, but his shields are low; have been ever since he watched Bill fall in a hail of bullets seven years ago. He was willing to give himself to anyone after that, to try and fill that void. When she found him she was able to staunch some of that flow, but never all of it. Like the Dutch boy with his thumb in the dam, she could only mend the problem, never fix it.

Now the only man he's ever trusted with everything is back, and it's like nothing's changed between them. There's no distance, save the natural distance of confusion. That's all Emilie can rely on to keep Dom thinking straight, at least for the moment. Eventually that comfort zone will be back between him and Billy, and when that happens there will be no talking to him. He'll be caught in the throes of hero worship and won't hear a word against Billy if it turns out he is not, in fact, a hero worthy of worship.

Emilie opens her eyes again, staring out the airplane window. It would be so easy to tell Dom all this and remind him that no one can be trusted completely. Even best friends can betray you, by accident or design. But somehow she can't do it. She can't bring herself to remind him that, if this were anyone but Billy, they wouldn't be talking about where to meet him in London so they could discuss their next plan of action. They'd be discussing where to ditch the stool pigeon's body so it would never be found. This whole situation is just too bloody convenient.

But she can't do it; won't watch his eyes go dark and distant and hollow.

Besides, she can't help feeling that maybe, just maybe, if she thinks about it… he might be right after all.

The memory of Billy's eyes is burned into her brain, and if she closes her eyes she can see him again, that teasing smirk on his face as his lips call her _Angel_. It fires off rockets in her head, that sense of affronted pride and mutual disdain, and is almost enough to make her forget that he smelled like cigarette smoke and whiskey.

He's here to get Dom back.

Her hand clutches Dom's wrist, holding tightly. She's not jealous -- it's not in her to be jealous; she's more secure than that. But she's invested. Dom has become as central to her life as breathing; he's the only partner she's ever had, because all other comers were useless and inept. Dom knows what she's thinking before she says it. When bullets are flying and the difference between life and death is a split second decision, she can always trust him to make the right one. Despite all her best efforts, she's come to depend on him.

So if Billy wants him back, he's welcome to fight for him. She just hopes he doesn't expect her to wear gloves.

Then there are… other matters. Things Dom can give her that no one else has ever done. Things like comfort, and security, and tenderness. She's never let herself be so at ease with a man before. It's no wonder Billy rose from the dead and made his first stop their doorstep, before he'd even dusted the grave-earth from his jacket. There's something about Dom that's more intoxicating than liquor, and more addictive than nicotine. She knows damn well he can take care of himself, but despite all that, she wants to protect him. She's never wanted to protect anything before, because nothing's mattered that much to her. Things are just things, and people are just objects. Dom changed the world for her. She suspects he did much the same for Billy.

Funny. She keeps thinking of this situation from Dom's point of view, when in reality, it's not about him at all. It's about her and Billy. Dom's still Dom -- _they're_ the one's who have changed. Though she saw the look in Billy's eyes as his gaze swept over Dom's rough new figure. _Not the same apple-cheeked young man, is he?_ she thinks grimly. _Not the same boy who held you when you died. THAT'S what you gave him, Billy. You gave him grief. Are you happy now?_

Emilie feels a pang of guilt at that, but shakes it off quickly. Serves the bastard right. Fuck him. Fuck him and his fucking cigarette-stained fingers that felt like iron coils around her arm. She won't bruise, goddammit, not if she's got anything to say about it. She won't give him the satisfaction of knowing he left an impression.

She flexes her fingers against the armrest and feels empty. Hollow as a vacant lot. For the first time in a long time she's afraid, and she can't even decide what caused it. Is it because they could disembark this plane and end up walking into the hands of Fox's agents? Or is it because they could disembark this plane and end up walking into Billy? Are they one and the same, or is one more dangerous than the other?

Against her better judgment, she hopes Billy's on their side. She has a feeling he's more dangerous than Fox could ever be.

Uncertainty churns in her gut like a poorly digested snake. Her fingers pull at the sleeve of Dom's sweatshirt, tugging up the cuff so she can touch his wrist, feel his pulse. Dom is the one who taught her touch as a way to relieve stress, though he never knew he was a teacher. On those first nights together, when he'd wake up shaking and sobbing and clutching at air, she'd slide into his arms like a keepsake and let him wrap around her like a blanket. He'd tell her things on those nights; whisper words into her ear that she could barely translate. That was where she'd learned about Billy, and the bridge in London, and the color of blood at midnight. In a way Billy's neo-resurrection is nothing special; he'd never really left in the first place. He'd always been there with them, a figure on the other side of the bed.

Her fingers wrap around Dom's wrist, squeezing as she closes her eyes. Emilie had never been needed before she met Dom, and his arms around her waist have become like a drug. She needs that touch. In her darkest moments, when she suddenly realizes how large the world is and how small she is in it, she gives in and lets herself brush her fingers over his cheek to remind herself she's not alone.

 _Fuck you, Billy_ , she thinks, setting her jaw as her eyes open again and she stares at the quiet cabin through a blur of tears. _You can't have him back._

"Em?" Dom's voice is sleepy as he raises his head from her shoulder to fix her with a bleary stare. "Wha'sup?"

Emilie gives him a tight smile. "Nothing," she lies. "Go back to sleep."

"Can't," he tells her, sitting up fully. "You're going to take my hand off at the wrist."

Emilie glances down to see that her knuckles are white where she's squeezing Dom's wrist. She lets go immediately. "Sorry," she murmurs, but doesn't meet his eyes. He's too perceptive, her Dominic. He'll KNOW.

"Em?"

Too late.

"Emilie, what's wrong?" His hand reaches out to cup her cheek, and she pulls away from him. "Are you crying, luv?"

"Don't be silly, Dominic." If he didn't know before he will now, because she only uses that tone of voice when he's caught her in a lie. "And you've lost your accent. Put it back."

"No." His fingers hold her chin and he tilts her face towards him. Emilie blinks away her tears but Dom's face is still a blurry, swimming image when she meets his eyes. "Oh, Em, luv," he murmurs, brow furrowing as he runs his thumb over her lips. She allows herself the luxury of closing her eyes and leaning into his touch. "Sweet, what's the matter? Tell me, please?"

"We need to use the bathroom," she whispers, voice choked.

"I think you mean _you_ , luv."

Opening her eyes again, she fixes him with a remarkably clear gaze, only slightly bloodshot. "No, Dom," she murmurs. "I mean _we_."

 

 

\--------------------------------

 

Dom lets Emilie go first, although he doesn't want to let her out of his sight. There has always been a transient quality to Emilie that gives Dom the feeling he could wake up one day and find her melted away like morning mist. Watching her walk down the airplane aisle in the direction of the miniature bathrooms sends shivers down his spine. He knows it's a plane and there's nowhere for her to go, but at the same time, if anyone could disappear into thin air, it's Emilie; especially in this mood. The only other one he's ever known like that is Billy.

A sharper, more pronounced shiver shakes Dom from head to foot. Billy. Fuck, he's _back_. Closing his eyes and leaning his head against the seat, Dom tries to get a grip on his emotions for the millionth time since he first saw Billy standing in their foyer. But there's no way Billy could still be alive. Dom had _seen_ him die; had held him as the life ran out of him and his summer green eyes went dark. It was his clearest memory. If he weren't on this plane now he'd have himself convinced the Scot's reappearance was nothing but a dream.

The question is, was it a good dream? Or a nightmare?

Emilie doesn't trust Billy, but that isn't difficult to understand. Emilie doesn't trust many people; especially not those who resurface after seven years without any kind of explanation as to where they've been, who they've been with and why they're back. Hell, it had taken over a year for her to gel with Jorge back in the day, and there are few people as trustworthy as Jorge. Dom could argue that even _he_ isn't as trustworthy as Jorge

 _Billy, Billy, don't be toying with us, mate,_ he thinks, closing his eyes and squeezing the armrests. _Billy, fuck, please just be there. Please don't disappear again. Please be_ real.

Dom lets his thoughts turn back to Emilie, and he frowns as he thinks about the tears in her eyes. His Emilie doesn't cry often, and when she does, it's usually only when she thinks no one can see her. He's woken up on several occasions to find her missing from the bed and curled up on the window seat, staring out the window at the sky. When she cries she makes next to no sound; the only clue to her tears is the tracks on her face that shine silver in the moonlight.

She broke down on his shoulder once, and only once. He remembers how she shook in his arms and poured buckets of saltwater down his neck. He remembers her hands bunching his shirt and her throat howling sobs into his shoulder. He remembers clutching her tightly, terrified she'd shatter like a porcelain vase from the sheer pressure of her grief. But he doesn't remember why she was crying. He doesn't think she ever told him.

They have no secrets between them, he and Emilie. Except the ones they keep.

As he stands up and shuffles down the airplane aisle, Dom's mind wanders back to the dark months after Billy's death, because there's nowhere else for them to go. His whole life, it seems, has been defined by that period of absolute black. He doesn't know how he met Elijah, or even where, but he knows his fate was sealed when he asked _Can I call you Billy?_ and Elijah had said _Yes._

A rose by any other name may smell as sweet, but poison is poison even if you call it _Billy_.

There are nights he wakes up in a cold sweat and stares at the ceiling. Those are the nights he remembers Elijah. There are days he sits in a chair and stares at the door. Those are the days he remembers Elijah. There are mornings when he washes his hair in the sink and runs out the door before daybreak to disappear with his surfboard before Emilie's even awake. Those are the mornings he remembers Elijah.

Sometimes he wonders what would have happened to him if Emilie hadn't plucked him out of his gutter. Elijah had played along with Dom's games, but truthfully Dom knew he'd wanted to replace Billy. Nobody could replace Billy. Time and again he'd tried to get away, but Dom wasn't like Emilie or Billy. He needed other people to make him whole. So he'd find himself slinking back to Elijah, and the young American would growl something in his ear -- something in a Scottish brogue, just to sink the hook in deeper -- and he'd end up staying a month.

Elijah trying to replace Billy had been the emotional equivalent of swallowing scissors; it had torn Dom apart from the inside out. Then one day he met a vision with blue eyes and blonde hair, and he'd _known_ she was different. He'd _known_ it. Here was someone who wouldn't need to replace Bill in his affections. Here was someone who was confident enough in herself that contending with the ghost of a dead man wasn't important.

Emilie doesn't know about Elijah. No one knows about Elijah; not even Jorge. Sometimes Dom thinks he made him up, but then he remembers that if he was going to invent an imaginary lover, he would have made him Scottish, not American.

He sees a strip of pink fabric sticking out the door of one of the bathroom cubicles and makes his way over. Knocking politely, he asks, "Hello? Anyone in there?" His American accent is back in full swing, because it's best to keep up the pretense until they _know_ they're safe. There's no answer from inside the stall, but the lock goes from OCCUPIED to EMPTY. He opens the door, sliding into the confined space.

Emilie slams him against the wall immediately, her face buried in his throat. "What took you so long?" she pants, dismissing her own fake accent in favor of her native Australian as her fingers yank at the hem of his shirt.

Dom closes his eyes, letting his arms dangle as she pushes his shirt up and runs her hands over his chest. "I got caught in a debacle with the drinks cart," he tells her, moaning softly as her hot mouth covers his left nipple. "Fuck, Em…"

There's next to no room to maneuver in the small space, but Emilie is petite and flexible. Somehow she gets his sweatshirt off and her own pink t-shirt and matching mini-skirt follow. To Dom's amusement, she's wearing Hello Kitty underoos. "Taking the good girl vibe a bit far, aren't we, luv?" he murmurs, leaning forward to nuzzle her hair as her hands tear at the fly of his jeans.

"I can be a good girl," she argues as she manages to unzip his fly and shoves his jeans down his legs. Straightening up, she wraps her arms around his neck and purrs, "Very good, in fact."

"Mmm, the best." He darts out his tongue to taste her lips and hears her whimper in response. Cor, she's desperate for him. Her belly rubs against his wantonly as her foot drags up his calf. "What's got you so wound up, sweet?" His hand smooths down her back, lifting her up to perch on the edge of the sink.

"Isn't it enough that I want you?" She captures his mouth again as her fingers hook into his boxers, pushing them down his legs.

Dom realizes that in all the effort to hide his own past, he's never asked Emilie about herself. As she hitches herself up on one hand to push off her panties, he finds himself wanting to ask about her first time. Had it been with a childhood sweetheart? Was it a good memory? Or did it haunt her, tainting every encounter she's had since. It's never really occurred to him before, but she's almost ten years younger than him. It had taken him years under Bill's tutelage to reach her level, yet she seems like a natural. A Killer Angel, bred to be deadly.

"Dom…" Her voice is soft and desperate, her knees clutching his hips. "Baby, come on…"

She only calls him "baby" when she's lonely, and that kills him like a knife to the heart. Why is she lonely? Doesn't she know he's not going anywhere?

Moving forward, he feels her legs wrap more fully around his waist, and he rubs a hand down the toned column of her thigh. "Have I told you how beautiful you are lately?" he asks softly, nuzzling her nose and kissing the corner of her mouth.

Emilie looks up into his eyes, her own blue gaze clouded with confusion. "All the time," she murmurs, her hand coming to rest atop his on her thigh. Her hips tremble, and Dom knows she wants him to slam into her; is expecting him to do so. He decides to surprise her.

"But I mean _really_ told you." His mouth moves slowly down her neck. "When's the last time I made you come just by telling you all the ways you're beautiful?"

"Oh…" Just a soft exhalation against his shoulder, but he knows she's remembering. "Dom, that was years ago."

"Back when we were still new, remember?" He kisses his way down her jaw. "We were still in Sydney and I was a total mess, good for fuck all. It was afternoon, and we were on my mattress on the floor. I remember because the sun was coming through the window and making you glow, and you said you'd never felt so warm before. Do you remember?"

"Dom, why-"

"Do you remember?"

Emilie leans back against the mirror, her eyes unreadable. "I remember," she murmurs.

Dom leans forward, pressing their foreheads together. "You're still as beautiful as you were then, Emilie," he whispers, feeling her breath mix with his in the space between their lips. "I am still the luckiest bastard in the world to have you. To belong to you. Nothing's changed since then." He brushes a kiss across her lips, feeling her mouth tremble. "Nothing, luv."

"Yes, Dom," she whispers back, her voice a harsh, raspy croak. "Everything's changed."

Dom smiles, nuzzling her nose as his hands gently lift her hips. "No, sweet," he murmurs, angling his own hips forward. She gasps against his mouth. "Nothing."

Her eyes slide shut as he enters her. It's an automatic response, and she's as helpless to deny it as the oceans to deny the tide. He brushes a kiss across each lid, feeling her lashes tickle his lips. "I love you," he breathes, sliding his cheek across hers as his hips start to rock.

Emilie's arms tighten around his neck and she presses her heels into his thighs, keeping him close so his thrusts stay deep. He feels her mouth open against his shoulder, moist breath hot on his skin. "Love you, Dom," she whispers breathlessly. "Love you…ohhh…."

He buries his face in her hair, moaning softly as his fingers walk up her skin to unhook the front clasp of her bra. Her breasts spill into his waiting hands and he squeezes gently, feeling her sharp intake of breath as his thumbs graze over her nipples. "Beautiful," he groans. "So fucking beautiful…"

Emilie grinds against him, arching her back and choking back a moan. He watches her head press against the mirror, blonde hair tumbling over her shoulders and spreading out across the reflective surface as her lower body rolls in time with his. The sharp sting of her nails scoring down his chest makes him wince but not let go. Pressing his thumbs into the warm hollows beneath her breasts, he watches her face flicker between need and release. "I know you're close, luv," he pants. "I always know. You can't hide that from me, Em. You can't hide. Stop trying. Christ, sweet, just let go…"

Her eyes open, two shards of blue in a flushed face. "Baby…!" she gasps as her hands slide up his chest to bury in his hair. "Please…!"

Dom leans forward, wrapping his arms around her waist and holding her close as she starts to shake. "Now, Emilie," he whispers in her ear. "Do it now…"

She jerks and he feels her body clutch him in a tight, rippling hold. A sharp exhalation by his ear is the only noise she makes, punctuated by a quiet whimper of completion. Always so in control, his Emilie. Always reined in so close. When he comes a few seconds later he deliberately moans, not bothering to mask his volume. Fuck the people in the cabin outside the door. THIS is all that matters. This moment here with her. There's nothing outside this cubicle so far as Dom's concerned. There's nothing outside her arms.

"Oh God," she whispers near his ear as they ride out the aftershocks together. "We're going to die, Dom."

He tightens his arms around her, pressing his forehead into her shoulder. He'd thought this might have something to do with that. "No we aren't," he assures her breathlessly, fingers stroking her ribs.

"We are, Dom. I can feel it."

"No. Billy warned us, Em. We're alive now and we're going to stay that way."

"Dom… What if Bil-"

"Don't say it." Straightening up slightly he gazes into her eyes. "Billy's not working for Fox, luv, and we're not going to die."

There is no fear in her eyes; just quiet resolution. He wishes it was the former, because he can allay fear. But he can't change her mind once it's made up. "You don't know that, Dom," she whispers, and he knows she means the entirety of his blanket statement. "You don't know anything at all."

He gives her a small smile, playing with the tendrils of her hair that dangle down to the small of her back. "Sure I do," he murmurs. "I know we've made it this far. I know we're going to get to London and Billy's going to meet us there. I know we're going to get out of this like we always do."

"How, Dom? How do you know?"

Sighing, he kisses her ear, her cheek, the tip of her nose. "Because I have Bill back and I have you," he whispers. "And there's no God in any pantheon throughout history that'd be cruel enough to take either of you away from me this time. I know it."

"What about you?" she murmurs.

Dom chuckles. "Don’t worry about me, luv," he assures her with a wink. "I can take care of myself."

"Promise me." Her fingers lace in his hair, keeping him close. " _Promise_ me, Dom."

Kissing her gently, he nods. "I promise, nothing will happen to me, luv," he murmurs. "I promise."

 

 

**THE END**


End file.
